Clouds Over MJN
by Ashtrees
Summary: A series of one-shots about the lives of the MJN crew. A mixture of genres. The lastest chapters: MJN grow moustaches.
1. Douglas' Birthday

_I don't own Cabin Pressure _

Altocumulus: Douglas' Birthday

Arthur was happily creating a mess/cake in the kitchen. Carolyn was frankly amazed at the sight. Even by Arthur's standards there was a jaw-dropping amount of flour, egg goo and sugar flung over ever surface, over every wall and up on the ceiling.

"What on earth is going on?" she cried.

Arthur looked up from stirring the mixing bowl. "Oh, hi, Mom. I'm just baking a cake. Well, I will bake it when I've made the cake mixture."

"There's no time, Arthur! We're supposed to going to the airfield -" she looked at the clock on the wall, "- now!"

"Oh," Arthur looked guilty. "I lost track of time. It kept going wrong, so I kept starting again."

"Never mind that!" Carolyn flapped her hands at her son. "Just go and have a wash. Hurry up."

Arthur stayed where he was. "I can't. It's Douglas' birthday and he can't have a birthday without a cake. It's the law," he added.

Carolyn raised an eyebrow. "Is it though?" she asked, warningly.

"Uh, no, I made that up," Arthur said, turning red. "But, Douglas should have a cake."

"I'm sure he'll survive. His daughter will probably give him one."

"No, she won't!" Arthur suddenly cried. "I heard Douglas telling Martin that she's not allowed to come and see him. So, it's going to be a bit of sad birthday for Douglas, Mom."

Carolyn held his gaze for a moment before sighing. "Fine. You get cleaned up, I'll sort something out."

Oooooooo

Martin charged into the porta-cabin clutching a white cardboard box. He was out of breath having ran from his van.

"You're almost late!" Carolyn snapped. "Take off is in fifteen minutes!

"Skipper!" Arthur cried, delighted. "But, what are you doing here, Skip? I thought you had a van job?"

"I do," Martin panted. "But, your delightful mother -"

Carolyn rolled her eyes.

"Called me to rush out to Fitton to buy a birthday cake for Douglas." Martin looked around the cabin. "Where is he?"

"Doing the walk around."

Martin thrust out a hand, looking slightly frantic. "Look, if you don't hurry up and pay me I'm going to be late. I have to drive to Cornwall."

Carolyn held out her own hands. "Well, give me the cake and you can go. Come on, chop-chop."

Martin held the box behind his back. "I want paying first."

"I'm sorry, Martin, but there's no time," Carolyn sighed. "Douglas will be back in here at any moment. It wouldn't be right for me to be seen paying you for it."

Martin took a step back, hugging the cake box to his chest as if Carolyn might snatch it from him. Which she would do.

"In that case, I'm sorry, Carolyn," Martin said, jutting his chin out, trying to look determined. "But, if you won't pay me right now then you're not getting this cake. Goodbye."

The porta-cabin door was flung wide open and Douglas charged into the porta-cabin, tripping over the ledge. He toppled into Martin's back sending them both crashing to the floor; Martin landed face first into the white box.

"Ow!" Martin yelped, voice muffled.

"Oops, sorry, Captain," Douglas muttered, distracted. He ruffled Martin's hair as he scrambled to his feet. He had his mobile in his hand and was talking to someone. "No, don't worry, Sweetheart, it was only Martin. Top drawer did you say?"

He pulled out the top drawer of his desk, and lifted out a white box. He opened the lid revealing a very homemade looking birthday cake, with sloppy red icing dripped haphazardly all over it. Douglas was thrilled.

"Ah, thank you, darling! It's beautiful! And you made it yourself? Clever girl! But, how did you get it to the airfield?" Douglas listened for a moment. Then he smirked. "Icarus, Verity says thank you for delivering her cake in secret. I hope you weren't thinking of charging her for your services?"

Martin propped himself up on one elbow, pushing the crumpled box away from himself. "Of course, not," he muttered, indignant. "I wouldn't charge a child. Just as long as somebody pays me for this cake! I can't afford the petrol to run around being a free deliverer of birthday cakes for Douglas Richardson!"

Douglas laughed and went back to talking his daughter, looking happier than he had done in the last few days.

Carolyn bent down and opened up the box on the floor. The cake with blue icing was bashed and smeared, but not too badly.

"Ooh, sorry, Martin," Carolyn cooed. "But, I don't need the cake now, so I won't be paying you for it. But, you can keep it if you want."

"I'll buy it!" Arthur said, cheerfully handing the money over to Martin.

Martin quickly said his goodbyes before running out again. There was an old lady in Cornwall waiting for him to deliver a grandfather clock to her and he was going to make sure that she got it on time.

"Here you go, Douglas," said Arthur, placing the squashed cake down on Douglas' desk, next to Verity's. "Happy Birthday!"

Carolyn rolled her eyes. Typical Douglas - going from having no birthday cakes to two in a blink of an eye.

"Happy Birthday," she said, wearily.

_A/N: This was a birthday fic I sent to my sister. _

_Thank you for reading. Hopefully updates will be fairly often!_


	2. Egg Hunt

_I don't own Cabin Pressure_

Cirrus: Egg Hunt

Martin burst in the port-cabin, looking out of breath and flustered.

"Douglas, I think I'm going mad!" he yelled.

Douglas lightly flicked the page of the newspaper he was reading with his index finger.

"Hmm," he grunted, uninterested.

Martin slapped his hands repeatedly on the desk in front of his First-Officer.

"Douglas, you should really come with me right now! I mean _now_ now!"

Douglas sighed loudly and hid behind his paper, ignoring Martin.

"There's something really….about Gertie….I can't explain it!" Martin huffed. "You need see it with you own eyes!"

Douglas slid further down into his chair, raising his newspaper even higher, an impenetrable paper wall against the attacking Captain.

With a grunt of frustration Martin clambered into Douglas' desk so that he could look down on Douglas from over the top of his paper.

"This is really important!" Martin snapped.

Arthur back his way into the porta-cabin carrying a large wicker basket filled with chocolate eggs.

"Morning, Chaps!" he called, cheerfully, as was always his way. "I've brought chocolate!"

"Ooh," said Douglas, finally putting his paper down. "Thank you, Arthur. What's the occasion?"

"Easter."

Arthur plopped the large basket down on Douglas' desk.

"But, it's mid-April. Easter is done and gone."

"Hello?" Martin called, waving his arms.

"Hello," Arthur waved back. He turned back to Douglas. "I know, but we didn't do anything for Easter."

"And what do we normally do for Easter?"

Carolyn bustled in the cabin.

"Good morning, my-three-mill-stones-tied-around-my-neck. Oh, Arthur, you brought chocolate?" She picked up an egg wrapped in purple foil. "I can't the remember the last time I had chocolate."

"Neither can I," Douglas said, unwrapping a green one. "But, it is expensive nowadays."

"I know," Arthur agreed.

"I'm standing up on the desk now!" Martin announced. His head almost brushed against the ceiling. But not quite.

Carolyn glared at him. "Are you trying to be taller or just plain silly, Martin?"

"No, I have something important to say and everyone is ignoring me! So, can everyone just _please_ give me attention!"

Carolyn shook her head. "Ignore him," she said to the others. "He's acting like a child."

"We don't want him to throw a tantrum," said Douglas, taking a bite of his egg.

"There's a badger on board Gertie!" Martin yelled.

Carolyn froze, her chocolate halfway to her mouth.

"What?" she said.

"Wow," said Arthur.

"Well, it is spring," Douglas shrugged.

"What do you mean, Martin?" Carolyn asked.

Martin meanwhile was now sitting down on the edge of Douglas' desk, legs crossed and examining his fingernails.

"Martin?" Carolyn repeated.

He looked up suddenly as if he had just noticed her.

"Oh, I'm sorry, are you talking to me? I hadn't noticed."

"Never mind that! Just tell us about the badger!" cried Douglas.

Martin folded his arms and began to gaze at the corner of the ceiling.

"So, now you're interested?" he said. "Well, I'm sorry, but I'm just a child and I don't feel like talking about it now."

He shifted himself to the other side of Douglas' desk, so that he was sitting sideways on to Carolyn and Douglas; and continued to stubbornly staring up at the ceiling.

"Oh, for goodness sake!" Carolyn flapped her arms. "Leave Martin to sulk and let's go take a look for ourselves. And be grown-up and _professional_," she added, slowly sounding out each syllable of Martin's favourite word.

That got the Captain's attention. He lowered his arms, looking guilty.

"I'm sorry, Carolyn. You're right. To behave so childishly is very unprofessional."

"I manage it," Arthur piped up.

"Shut up, Arthur," Carolyn snapped. "So, Martin, perhaps you would like to explain about the badger?"

Martin nodded. "Right. Well, it's a badger."

"Yes?"

"And it's on board Gertie."

"You're invaluable," Douglas drawled.

"What else do you want me to say?" Martin exploded. "That it's sitting up front smoking a pipe? Or playing cards in the aisle with a sheep and a fox? I'm not the Lord High Badger Expert of Fitton! It's just a badger! A plain, old, boring, plane-dwelling variety badger! It was sort of shuffling around in the hold, not doing much! I'm sorry if that's not exciting enough for you!"

"Let's just go take a look," Carolyn sighed.

Oooooooo

Arthur scrambled out of the hold.

"It's defiantly a badger!" he said, excitedly. "It really is! I've never seen one before!"

"Thank you, Arthur," said Carolyn. "We have all now taken a look and we have all confirmed that it is defiantly a badger."

"And one that's not doing much. Like the Captain said," smirked Douglas.

"Where is Martin anyway?"

"Here," Martin panted, jogging across the hanger. "I've called the RSPCA and they said they'll be along shortly, but we should try to keep the badger inside Gertie so that we don't loose it."

Douglas raised his eyebrows. "It's a shame we don't have a badger hook to keep it on and that way we'll know where to look the next time we need our badger."

"Can't we just shoo it out?" asked Carolyn. "It would find it's way home eventually."

"But, not before being run over by an aeroplane."

"How did it get on board in the first place?" Arthur asked.

"They burrow," Martin replied.

"That explains it," said Arthur, thoughtfully. "Do badgers get bored?"

"I don't know. Why?"

"If it gets bored, then it might try to escape."

"Good point," Douglas nodded. "Any ideas, Einstein?"

"One," Arthur grinned. "Just the one."

Oooooooo

Three hours later a disgruntled RSPCA inspector came out of Gertie's hold with a large white cage, with a sleeping badger inside it.

"What took you so long to catch it?" Carolyn asked.

"It was fast. Really fast," said the Inspector, pushing up his glasses. "Almost hyperactive. What I want to know is why is this badger covered in chocolate?"

"Is it?" Martin asked, bending down for a closer look at the badger. It's nose, mouth and paws were covered in a sticky brown mess. "I guess it liked the chocolate."

"What?" cried the Inspector, angrily. "You did what?"

"We fed it chocolate to stop it from getting bored," Douglas explained.

"Ah, that's okay then," said the Inspector, calming down. "A sensible precaution. Badgers are vicious when bored. Who's idea was it?"

"Mine," Arthur cried, shooting up his arm.

"Well done," said the Inspector. "I knew a farmer once who liked to talk to the badgers on his land. Boring fella. Drove the badgers to kill him, ripped his face off. Nasty. Anyway, good thinking, young man. It was a good idea to feed the badger chocolate, otherwise I don't think any of you would be left alive now."

"Brilliant!"

"Yes, it was brilliant. Anyway, I'll be on my way. Bye-bye."

The Inspector walked off, whistling happily.

"Well," Douglas sighed. "It's been a boring sort of day."

_A/N: RSPCA stands for Royal Society of Protection against Cruelty to Animals. They also rescue wild animals in trouble._

_WARNING: Do not feed badgers chocolate._

_EVEN MORE IMPORTANT WARNING: Do not allow badgers to become bored. Entertain them until help arrives. _

_Happy (late) Easter to everyone and thank you for reading and reviewing!_

"_Jesus isn't here! He has been raised from death." Luke 24:6_

_I'm sure heaven is full of otters and badgers!_


	3. Cabin Castle

_I don't own Cabin Pressure_

Castellanus: Cabin Castle

Castellanus – castle-like with a series of turret shapes – indicates air mass instability.

The tiny kingdom of Fitton was miniscule, but Queen Carolyn was determined to make it a world power. Even if few people knew that it actually existed.

Queen Carolyn had only one knight serving her (as much as the word serve applied to him), Sir Douglas Richardson. Having only one knight was not that impressive; but, one way to remedy that would be to hire more knights. As many she could afford.

"And how many would that be, Mom?" asked her son, Arthur.

Carolyn gestured to the small pile of gold coins, lying forlornly next to the scales. "You see that _tremendous _amount of gold, Arthur?"

"Yeah."

"Well, that would allow us to maybe hire one _arm_ of a single knight, rather than a whole knight."

Arthur's face lit up with the thought of possibilities that could be had with a knight's arm.

Carolyn knew that face and it worried her. "Arthur," she said, in a warning tone.

"No, listen, Mom. It would be brilliant because I could bring it to life with my magic and you wouldn't have to pay it anything."

"Except for one thing, Arthur. You're the worst wizard in the entire kingdom."

"That's not that bad," Arthur muttered.

"And the _rest_ of the world," Carolyn added.

ooooooooooo

Arthur pushed his way into Carolyn's private chambers, dragging a short, ginger-haired man by the arm.

"Mom! Mom! I've found you a knight! He's just arrived in Fitton!"

"I'm not a knight!" the man protested, pulling back his arm. "I said that I really wanted to be one."

"Never mind that!" Arthur cried, pushing the man towards Carolyn's table. "Just go talk to Mom!"

"Arthur, that is enough!" Carolyn snapped, standing up. "Who is this?"

"Martin," the man answered, rather stiffly. "Who are you?"

Carolyn glared at Martin with frosty eyes. "_I_ am Carolyn, Queen of Fitton."

The man's demeanour changed immediately. He went from looking irritable of the situation to humble in second.

"Your Majesty, please give me a job! Nobody wants to hire me! But, I know that I can do a good job, if you would just, please, give me a chance!" Martin cried, throwing himself down on his knees.

"Oh, get up," Carolyn grumbled. "And tell me who you are and why you are here?"

"Uh, right." Martin ran a hand through his hair. "Well, my name is Martin Crieff and I'm looking for work. I'm a soldier, you see. But, I can also do archery and hawking, if that's what you need."

"Yes, but why are you here?" Carolyn asked. "Surely, you belong to another kingdom, like _Camelot_?" she spat the word with distaste. Then realisation sunk in. "Oh, I see. You're a soldier for hire."

Martin bristled slightly at the term.

"Only temporarily," he said. "Until somebody hires me for good. I'm not like the others! I would be very, very, loyal. I don't go chasing for the highest bidder if that's what you're thinking."

"No, that's not what I was thinking," Carolyn said, slowly. "Arthur said that you wanted to be knight."

"All my life," Martin sighed. "But, it's not that easy with my background. I mean, uh, you have to come from the right place."

"Yes. Martin, how would you like to be one of my knights?"

The man's face lit up.

"Really? Just like that?"

"Just like that," Carolyn smiled. "If you agree to work for free."

Martin's face fell. "Ah, I'm not so sure. Everyone needs money after all."

He scraped back his chair and stood up.

"I want to be paid. At least half of what the other knight gets."

Carolyn raised an eyebrow, questioningly.

"Arthur was telling me about your knight shortage," Martin explained. "So, if you're really that desperate you'll pay me, right?"

Carolyn's face hardened. She glanced at Arthur, who shrugged apologetically.

"I'll pay you with a knighthood and nothing else. You'll never become a knight any other way."

"A quarter! A quarter of what you give the other knight."

"No, I'm sorry, Martin. But, I just can't afford it. This is a tiny kingdom, you can see that."

Martin shook his head, looking sad.

"Then I'm sorry, but I can't help you," he said, turning towards the door.

"I'll let you be the head knight."

Martin paused in his tracks, but didn't turn around. Carolyn sensed victory.

"You'll be charge of all the other knights," she tempted.

"All one of them," Martin said, turning to face her.

"Go on, Martin!" Arthur urged. "It'll be fun! And once you are a knight then it'll be a lot easier to be hired by someone else. Especially when you tell them that you were a head knight."

"That's true," Martin murmured, thinking.

"Oh, I see," Carolyn grunted. "I give you a knighthood and you high-tail it out of here. Well, that's not going to happen! If I make you knight then you stay here in Fitton!"

Martin looked startled.

"For g-good?" he stammered.

"For good," Carolyn nodded.

"I-I can't stay here! It smells for one thing!"

"It's not that bad," said Arthur. "You'll get used to it."

"No! I can't!" Martin raised up his hands in defeat. "I have to go!"

Carolyn lent forward on her elbows rubbing her hands together.

"But, you're forgetting the prestige that comes from being a head knight," she drawled. "It'll practically pay for itself! We can't afford to go to war, although, goodness knows we have enough enemies, so you won't even have to fight. You just show up occasionally to make me look good and that'll be it. You'll even have time to do other paid work. And, of course, your family would benefit from it."

Martin rubbed his forehead, wavering. "I don't know," he said. "It's not really my idea of what a knight is supposed to do. Just looking good, I mean. I always thought that there would be more action involved."

Carolyn lent back. "Fine. Go away. Go home. But, you will never become a knight. It's something that you have to born into, but you're clearly not from that class. You'll be stuck as a soldier for hire all of your life, wondering from kingdom to kingdom, never settling anywhere, never being paid much -"

"I'll do it!" Martin shouted. He hovered forward and then back again. "Yes - no! It's good, or might be very bad…I don't know!"

"Hooray!" Arthur cheered. "Brilliant!"

Carolyn began rapidly writing out a contract on a worn piece of parchment with her quill.

"Just sign here," she said, pushing them towards Martin.

"Uh," Martin hesitated again, until Arthur shoved him towards the desk. He picked up the quill scanning the contract. It seemed to take him ages as he carefully read every detail, mouth moving silently.

Carolyn became impatient.

"Just sign it!" she growled.

Martin flinched and signed his life away.

"Hooray," said Arthur again.

"Good," Carolyn nodded, satisfied. "Congratulations, Martin. Or, Sir Martin now."

"Oh," Martin blinked. He was feeling a little bit dazed. He had spent all of his life wanting to be a knight and now it had happened in the most anti-climatic way. "Aren't I supposed to get down on one knee and you tap me on each shoulder with a sword, or something?"

"Not unless you want me to cut off your head," Carolyn shrugged. "Now, then I suppose you will want to meet your fellow knight? I'm sure that he will be overjoyed to meet you."

_A/N: Thank you for reading! More Cabin Castle one-shots later…._


	4. Rain Clouds

_I don't own Cabin Pressure_

Rain Clouds In Summer

By Douglas' calculations it had taken at least two years for him to look upon Martin Crieff as a friend, rather than just a colleague.

It was just over two years after Martin first started at MJN that Douglas found out that the captain was not paid a salary by Carolyn and then some months later he discovered that Martin earned his living through his dad's old van. He realised that it was quite a big thing _not_ to know about someone whom you spend half of your life with, shut up in a tiny metal compartment.

But, Douglas reasoned that in his defence Martin had not wanted to tell him, feeling embarrassed by it. Also, in his defence, it had taken Martin just as long to ask what his wife's name was.

But, against them both was the reality that it was boredom which had finally driven the two pilots to start asking questions about each other, during the gruelling Hong Kong to Limerick flight when all their word games had exhausted their entertainment value. Curiosity overtook genuine interest. Even then the flight deck lights had been kept turned off, so they were sitting in the semi-darkness and could choose not to see each other's faces.

It was not that either Douglas or Martin was cold hearted. They were not. It was more that right from the beginning there had been unspoken agreement between them all (Carolyn included) that there was no room on board Gertie for sharing personal information. Instead they spent each flight bickering about nothing particularly important, playing games, or trying to claw themselves out of the latest disaster which hit the tiny airline. It took all of their attention and time up.

Douglas had not always been like that. It was something that Martin would come to learn too, that each individual flight deck had it's own sub-culture and lists of Dos and Don'ts.

Back in his Air England days, when Douglas was still only a First Officer on his first wife, he had been incredibly chatty. As had Herc Shipwright. They had found out everything there was to know about the other within days of meeting each other. Back then he could be proud of his life, which appeared to be going places.

But, by the time he had met Martin at MJN and was 52 years old, on wife number three and a First Officer again, he suddenly had no desire to divulge about his personal life to the young, arrogant upstart, who had stolen the position of captain.

Martin had been only 31, with the odd belief that he was the better pilot simply because he was the captain. Douglas had found him extremely irritating for that reason. But, he was also a privet person, neatly dodging the tirade of questions that Arthur poured down on him, until eventually the steward gave up asking altogether. Douglas couldn't help but note the skill in which Martin avoided answering unwanted questions and realised that the younger man had obviously been practising for a long time.

But, as pompous and annoying Martin was, at least he didn't appear interested in knowing anything about Douglas. Which suited Douglas.

However, during the Limerick trip they had apparently found out the worst about each other and something close to friendship had formed.

But, those things: Icarus Removals and the divorce from Helena, were not the worst things. There were other secrets.

Oooooooooooo

Douglas had noticed the little girl in the numerous photographs around what he had seen of Martin's family home; a young girl who was defiantly not Catlin Crieff, because Catlin was often seen beside her in the photos, also a little girl.

It was also hard not to notice that the number of photos of the girl far exceeded those of Martin, Simon and Catlin. There were plenty of Martin's late father around too, but no where near as many as the girl's. It was even harder not to notice that the girl never appeared to be any older than at least three years.

During their visit to Wendy, Douglas had also noticed Carolyn glancing a little sadly at the small framed picture sitting on the kitchen window sill. But, neither Douglas nor Carolyn dared ask about the girl because they didn't know how Wendy would react. It could be that she would have been upset with Martin for not telling them about her, or maybe she simply wouldn't want to tell strangers about her on their first meeting. Another possibility that Douglas hoped for was that maybe the girl was simply a cousin, whom Wendy was incredibly fond of and was alive and well somewhere far away, so any odd visit was greatly treasured. But, that didn't seem likely, especially as the toddler never appeared to be particularly healthy in any of her pictures.

But, infuriatingly Martin said nothing about her after they had left the house, too caught up in the victory of getting one over his brother; and he still didn't mention her in the weeks that followed. So, Douglas and Carolyn stuck to the unspoken agreement and didn't ask because Martin obviously didn't want to talk about it. Which was fair enough in Douglas' mind.

However, there was still Arthur. Arthur had been to visit Wendy on his own and Arthur being Arthur would have just asked outright. Carolyn had asked him about it as soon as they got home that night.

Arthur had shrugged. "I did ask," he had said. "But, Wendy looked upset and then she said that Abigail had cancer, so she died when she was three. And then Wendy went into the kitchen to make tea, even though I had just made some. I thought that I shouldn't say anything. Did I do the right thing?"

Carolyn had told that he had done the right thing and when Douglas asked her about it the next day she told him. It was enough for them to know Abigail's name and there didn't seem to be anything else to know.

Oooooooooooo

Transylvania, Romania

Transylvania is, of course, famous for it's association with vampires, particularly Dracula, thunderstorms and creepy undertakers. But, in reality Romania is so much more beautiful than that.

The Carpathian Mountains, for instance, on the east and south border, the second longest mountain range in Europe. There are music festivals, film festival, medieval cities to visit, old churches, even an ice cave - all in all, it is a good place to visit.

"This is absolutely the scariest place I have ever been to and it's brilliant!" Arthur crowed, jumping up and down at the rattling window.

"Shut up, Arthur!" Martin, Douglas and Carolyn yelled in union, just in time for the latest bolt of lightening to throw an eerie white glow into the room.

They had flown a group of tourists over for them to take part in the Transylvania International Guitar Festival and once their clients had been safely transported to their nice, comfortable, dry hotel, MJN had made their way to the cheap place Carolyn had booked, out in the middle of the countryside.

A strong gust of wind howled around the tiny shack of a place that dared to proclaim itself a hotel, threatening to knock down it's four walls right on top of them. It blew down the fireplace, making the flames jump and dance.

Martin shuddered. It was draughty in the dingy dining room, lit only by a few flickering lights.

Carolyn noticed the shudder of course.

"Oh, don't tell me that you're afraid of a little thunderstorm, Martin!" She eyed him with a sharky grin, spooning up some of the stew the hotel owner's wife had made for them. They were the only guests currently in the tiny hotel and the couple who ran it were thrilled to have them there.

"Actually, I quite like thunderstorms," Martin replied, refusing to rise to her bait. "I'm just a bit cold that's all."

There was a loud rumble of thunder and then all of the lights went out, throwing the room into sudden darkness.

"Brilliant!" said Arthur.

"I'm confused, Arthur," Douglas said slowly. "In what way can a power-cut be brilliant? I mean, granted, the electricity in this place was doing little to improve the dampness and the gloom anyway, and now we don't have to look at each other. But, still, hardly a cause for rejoicing, right?"

"Oh, come on, Douglas," replied Arthur, rolling his eyes. "How can it not be brilliant?"

"You've lost me."

"Me too," said Martin.

An old lady poked her wrinkly head around the door.

"I am sorry, folks, but the power will probably be out for a long time," she said, before quickly retreating back to where she had come from.

"Great," Carolyn sighed, pushing away her plate. "In that case, I'm going to bed. Night all."

Arthur joined her by the door. "I'm going too," he said. "I bet I can see more of the thunderstorm from upstairs."

Douglas and Martin were left alone in the dark, with only the odd bolt of lightening to give them intermittent flashes of light, which were becoming less frequent as the thunderstorm rolled on overhead.

It seemed as good as any time to ask.

"It's none of my business, of course, but you have a sister called Abigail?" Douglas asked, quickly before he could change his mind.

There was a moments pause. Douglas could sense Martin shifting position in the gloom. He wondered if Martin would simply ignore him. He did have a right to.

"I _had_ a sister called Abigail," Martin corrected, a little stiffly. "She died aged three of a brain tumour, a glioblastoma - the most aggressive kind. I was seven." The words came out in a rush, answers to the questions Douglas was building himself to ask.

"I'm sorry," he said and immediately felt distasteful about saying it. He never really felt comfortable in telling people that he was sorry for the tragedies they suffered. It was part of the reason that he would have made a terrible doctor. In truth, the phrase irritated him, but on the other hand it was the easiest way to tell someone: I feel sympathy for you. I wish that it hadn't happened to you.

Martin snorted. "Yes, and that's the reason that I don't tell many people about Abby. I don't mind answering people's questions, but I must have heard those two words a million times over and it's unbelieving ANNOYING!" he suddenly bellowed, just in time for a bolt of lightening to amplify his infuriation, it lit up his face like a Halloween mask.

When darkness plunged back over them Martin slumped back into his chair, running a hand through his hair.

Douglas smiled. "In that case, I take it back."

"Good." Martin sighed loudly. "That feels better, actually. I couldn't have told anyone else that I don't need their apologies."

"But, you could yell it at me? I'm touched. But, speaking as a parent, I feel more sorry for your mom. And your dad, of course."

There was sound of Martin swallowing the lump in his throat.

"Yes," he agreed. "It has been hardest on her. But, you know what my mom is like. She doesn't accept help from anyone! I don't remember too much about the first few weeks after Abby died, but I can imagine it. She would have been working hard to look after everyone else while ignoring her own needs. I bet she didn't even accept any comfort from Dad."

Douglas was silent for moment. Yes, he could easily imagine Wendy bustling around, comforting her three remaining children and her husband and insisting that she didn't need any help.

"Perhaps that was her way of coping," he suggested, quietly. "Because she felt needed by you and your siblings, she could carry on."

Martin's chair creaked as he lent forward, elbows on the table.

"I suppose," he muttered, becoming more uncomfortable with the topic. "I really don't remember her that well at all." He sounded surprised and a little bit guilty.

"Don't feel bad," said Douglas. "She was only three and you were only seven. I expect that suppressing it all is your way of coping."

"Are you my psychiatrist now, Douglas?" Martin asked, after a slight pause.

"Not at all, Sir. Counselling sessions are part of a First Officer's duty. Didn't you know that?"

"No, I didn't," Martin mumbled, sounding gloomy again. Douglas sensed that he needed to tread carefully otherwise Martin would clam up over it.

"You don't talk about her much, do you?"

"No. Why?" Martin said, sounding defensive. "Why is it important to you? Bad things happen all the time. And we haven't forgotten Abby, we just don't talk about her. Why is that a problem?"

He was repeated running a hand through his hair now. As his eyes continued to adjust to the dark, Douglas could see Martin glaring. He raised his hands in surrender.

"Calm down," he said. "I wasn't accusing you of doing anything wrong. Which you haven't, by the way. I was just trying to understand, that's all."

Martin's shoulders sagged.

"I'm sorry," he said. "You're right. I'm not used to talking about it. My family never talk about her. We just keep moving forward. It works for us."

Douglas nodded. "It's the same with my family. My father was a RAF pilot during the second World War, and spent the end of it in a POW camp. But, that's all I know about that time."

Martin blinked. "If he was an officer then he may been treated quite well."

"Possibly," Douglas shrugged. "But, it was all of his experiences which came before that which left scars, I think. But, still he refuses talk about it. He's the kind of man who would've been embarrassed to have been awarded the Victoria Cross."

"Refuses?" Martin repeated. "Is he still alive?"

"Oh, yes!" Douglas grinned. "He just won't go. And that's despite all of the heavy drinking he took part in while I was still a boy."

There was a pause in the conversation.

"Ah," murmured Martin, eventually.

"Yes, it must be in our genes, or else I simply copied his bad habit," said Douglas, voicing Martin's thoughts aloud. "And no, he didn't beat me or my brother."

It was Martin's turn to raise his hands in submission. He had clearly been thinking it.

"But, it's like you said," Douglas went on. "Bad things happen all the time. And, I suppose in a way, it's just how people deal with the hard times. We don't talk about it, we don't let it show and we don't forget. We just carry on, taking it all with us."

Martin murmured his agreement and they sat in silence for a few minutes.

The lights flickered back into sudden life. Both Martin and Douglas groaned as the light hit their unadjusted eyes, but as Martin looked across the table at Douglas he could see that the older man's eyes were slightly wet.

Martin chose not to say anything, but ignored it as he went up to bed. There were some things best left unsaid. There would never be a time when Douglas or Martin would say out loud, "We're friends and we look out for one another," because they didn't have to. They just knew it; to openly talk about their friendship would break it somehow. It was another unspoken agreement which hung between them, but one which they could both rely upon.

_A/N: Thank you for reading! I give credit to Wikketkriett for the idea of MJN going to Transylvania. They'll be going there in the next CP fic she's writing offline and I'm very excited about the idea! _

_Thank you again for reading! _


	5. Creeping Shadows

_I don't own Cabin Pressure. Thanks for reading. _

Creeping Shadows

It was a dark, wet, cold, windy January day. The orange street lamps were reflected on the shiny pavements. Hiss of water spraying as cars sped through the centre of Fitton. School children were huddled up in rain macs, moms with pushchair had the covers up. A woman's Sainsbury's carrier bag had split open, veg and tins rolling across the pavement. It was a miserable day for everyone.

Martha was stuck at a set of traffic lights, feeling uncomfortably hot with the van's heater stuck at full blast. She was starting to feel headachy and wondered if she was dehydrated.

A solitary man crossed the road, sauntering across, far to slow to match the pace of the infuriating beeping. He was wearing a coat far too thin for the winter and was looking very wet. As he neared the other side he suddenly hesitated and gave Martha a direct look. It was only a fleeting glance but Martha still flinched under his gaze and looked away. She didn't know the man, but the man had defiantly given her a cold, considered look.

Martha felt a chill run down her back. A feeling of icy dread spread through Martha's chest. Looking to the other side of the road the man was no longer visible. Martin looked up and down she should have been able to have seen him somewhere.

Behind him the car beeped impatiently; the traffic lights had changed.

Sucking in a deep breath Martha took off the handbrake and moved forward trying to put the incident out of her mind.

When she arrived at the portacabin he wasn't too surprised to see that she was the first one there. There was a note from Carolyn left on her desk informing her that Arthur had managed to scold himself whilst making coffee and she had taken him to the hospital, so she was to man (or rather woman) the phone and emails. Looking over to the low table in the corner where they kept the water heater and microwave, Martha could see a damp patch on the carpet, from where Arthur had spilt the boiling water.

Martha sat down in her chair, feeling cold all over. She should turn on the electric heater, make herself a hot drink, take off her damp jacket, but she just sat there.

She felt cold inside too. She held his head in his hands, feeling distant, feeling fear. Martha shuddered again. She was thinking about the man again. It was ridiculous she knew. But, she couldn't stop the feeling the dark, cold feelings buzzing at the back of her head, whispering paranoid thoughts.

She needed to stop them in their tracks, stop them cycling around her head.

"Good morning, Martin!" Douglas called, kicking the door closed behind him. "Supreme Commander of MJN's flagship, Gertie! Visionary of aviation-otter relations! And surprisingly evil genius! And -" He paused to shudder and glanced questioningly at Martha. "Martha, I can see your breath. Why isn't the heater on?"

Martha felt the relief spreading through her as if she had just sank into a warm bath. Other people were best kind of distraction, especially Douglas. She was bright, clever, cheerful and -

"Martha?"

Martha jerked out of his thoughts, standing up hurriedly. "I'll turn on it now."

Douglas waved a hand at her dismissively, "No, I've got it." He clicked it on and straightened up. "Where's Arthur and Carolyn?"

"Arthur scolded himself and Carolyn took him to A&E."

"Why would Arthur tell himself off?"

"Uh, I meant he scolded himself with boiling water."

"Yes, thank you, Martha. I was in fact making a pun."

"Oh."

Douglas puffed out a short breath, sending strands of his damp fringe flicking upwards.

"Riiight, we're going to have a fun morning. Do you want coffee?"

Martha hurried over to the table.

"I can make it."

"Well, you don't have to because I'm going to make it," said Douglas, spooning out coffee granules into two mugs.

Martha immediately backed off.

"Yes, sorry, of course. I just thought that you might scold yourself," she said, taking a step back.

"Why on earth would I do that?" Douglas retorted. "Because I'm envious of Arthur's burn, or because you think I'm incapable?" He held the cups under the water heater and pulled down the tap, so that boiling water gushed out and filled up the cups. White steam spilled out everywhere, spiralling up to the ceiling.

"Sorry, sorry. It's just been a slightly, weird morning."

"In what way? It's raining, Arthur's had an accident and we're shut up in a tiny room together not knowing if MJN will last till the end of the day. And it's only half past nine. Sounds like business as usual."

"Ye-ah," Martha forced a laugh.

Douglas gave her a sideways glance.

"So, what happened that's made you all edgy?"

Martha bit her lip. If she told Douglas about the man at the traffic lights, he would laugh and then assure her that she was worrying about nothing. And Martha knew that she would trust his judgement and would feel better for it.

But, Douglas was so grounded, level-headed and confident at all times. He probably never had a weird feeling or thought in his life.

"A woman dropped her shopping on the ground?" she said, desperately.

"What? Why was that weird?"

"Well, I wouldn't put my veg and tins in the same bag together."

Douglas stared at her and then shook his head.

"Fine. If you don't want to tell me," he said. He sounded a little hurt. He pressed her coffee cup into her hands. "But, you look worn out to me. Why not take a nap?" he said, looking towards the sofa.

"I don't think that I should. It's not very professional, is it? Sleeping on duty."

Douglas rolled her eyes, sitting down at her desk.

"I would take advantage of there being a distinct absence of Arthurs and Carolyns. And I'm only going to catch up on my log-book and crosswords. But, mainly crosswords."

"Oh, okay."

Martha sat down on the edge of the sofa feeling hideously self-conscious about the idea of lying down and sleeping in front of Douglas. She swallowed, her mouth dry. Through her mind whizzed a various pranks Douglas could play on her: writing on her forehead in lipstick, painting her nails, dipping her hand into a bowl of warm water…

She shook her head again, trying to scatter the dark thoughts. She slipped off her shoes, lay down, shutting her eyes. She winced slightly at the coldness of the material, it felt almost frozen and slightly damp.

It felt quite peaceful just lying there. She was too tense and cold to sleep, but she could hear the sound of the clock ticking, the low continuous hum of the heater, and Douglas - the scratch of his pen, the rustling of his clothes as stretched his arms, the occasional hum of some half-forgotten song under his breath. It was comforting knowing he was around.

Martha began to relax. She had strange moments of falling asleep for, feeling like her mind was drifting towards to sleep, thinking that she was at home, before waking again for a few minutes, before drifting again.

She shifted into a more comfortable position and as she did so her jacket sleeve was pulled back and her bare skin brushed against the cushion covers. The sofa still felt icy cold in places and she drew in a sharp breath, drawing her arm in closer to her body, shivering slightly.

Martha was distantly aware of hearing a chair creaking as Douglas stood up. A moment later she sensed him padding past her, the swirl of cool air brushing her fingers. There was a low creak of metal, a small grunt from Douglas and then she could feel hot air radiating onto her face. She couldn't be sure but Martha felt that Douglas was lingering in front of her, but then she heard the soft tread of his feet and the creak of his chair again.

Martha opened her eyes slightly, looking at the heater through her eyelashes, moved from it's original position in the corner.

"Won't you be cold?" she mumbled. She had to force the words out, she was surprised to hear how thick and heavy her voice sounded, not realising how close to sleep she had been.

"I'm warm enough," Douglas said, sounding far away.

"Thanks," she muttered, eyes already fully closed again.

The cycle of paranoid thoughts in the back of her mind had disappeared.


	6. Insomnia

Insomnia

As usual Martin was the second one to arrive at the airfield. Carolyn, who usually came in early to catch up on paperwork again, was writing up dates on the wall chart.

"Morning, Carolyn," he mumbled, as he entered the portacabin and fell down into his seat.

"Oh, dear," said Carolyn, sympathetically. "Still can't sleep?"

"Falling asleep is not the problem. It's how I feel after waking up." Martin pressed the heels of his hands into eyes, suppressing a yawn. "Which is like I've just ran a marathon."

"You should try cutting back on the amount of coffee you drink."

"I haven't had a coffee in the past two days."

"Ah, well, in that case you're probably going through a caffeine withdraw. Why not try taking a nap before the others arrive? I'm only going to be doing the accounts."

"Thanks." Martin lent forward on the desk, settling his head onto his folded arms. It didn't look particularly comfortable to Carolyn, but Martin was more than used to taking naps in his van, parked in lonely service stations, or onboard Gertie during the longer flights.

Carolyn immersed herself the business of straightening out MJN's accounts, which made for very gloomy reading. Sighing she rummaged around in her desk drawer for the calculator. She almost regretted telling Martin to sleep, he was very much the maths wizard and rarely bothered using a calculator when working out weight calculations or how much fuel Gertie required for a flight. While Carolyn found herself stumbling over the simpler equations, laboriously punching in each digit into the ancient calculator, Martin sprinted through them with little to no effort. It was a talent he really didn't seem to pride himself over as much as he should.

Glancing up hopefully Carolyn could see that Martin's posture had already relaxed into sleep and she could just about make the sound of his gentle breathing. She didn't have the heart to wake him up and ask for assistance.

Carolyn shook her head and went back to her papers; she could really use his help. Some days she felt that Martin wasted as a pilot, but again she didn't have the heart to tell him. With his knowledge of all things aviation he could have made a living out of writing books and essays about it's history, the kind of books which gathered dust in the gift shops of Air Museums, but were highly valued by a handful of enthusiasts. With his mathematical ability and rather tedious, meticulous personality, he could have become an engineer; he could spend his days designing engines and wings and test them over and over again, make a few slight adjustments and then run another hundred tests on them.

Maybe it was because she was Arthur's mother that she felt this way about Martin, seeing their intelligence confined to a few narrow threads where most people would miss it.

Arthur still continued to amaze her with his surprisingly philosophical views on life. She still held on tightly to the gem about true happiness showing up in the everyday small things, things that you could count on. Someone who was simply an idiot could not have thought of something like that.

Martin's intelligence was much easier to see - he had achieved a 100% on his technical exam for Swiss Air. That was the only thing he would tell them about his interview. No one had ever achieved a perfect score before.

But, he was not a very good pilot. He was safe, but barely adequate. Carolyn sighed, resting her hand in her chin. She felt sorry for Martin. The man knew nothing about football, couldn't tell a swan from a goose and thought that Duxford Air Museum made a great first date. But, he knew so much about aircraft and had memorised the operations manuals, but that knowledge was nearly completed wasted in a flight deck. Most pilots knew the bare minimum about what they were flying. Most pilots referred to aircraft incorrectly as airplanes, rather than aeroplanes. Martin never did.

Carolyn made up her mind that if Martin heard nothing back from Swiss Air or was rejected, she would encourage him to train as an engineer, or something similar. Some would say that being aged 36 was too late to retrain, but then Martin was the man who had put himself through his exams seven times. If he had the tenacity and the determination to do that then he would be capable of almost anything.

It had already occurred to Carolyn that Swiss Air was probably the reason why Martin was not sleeping properly. The poor man was probably worried to death about it. If on the one hand he got the job, it would be very good for him, but on the other, MJN would fold quickly. That wouldn't be so bad for Carolyn: she could retire and possibly join Herc in Zurich. Arthur was still young and full of enthusiasm; he would find a job somewhere.

But, Douglas was another matter. Carolyn bit her lip, thinking about it. Douglas was 57 years old, with three divorces, a daughter in her late teens and a black mark against his name for being fired from Air England. He was unlikely to find another pilot's job.

Even if they folded today, Martin had Icarus Removals to fall back on. In fact, his removal business would probably boom if he had more time to make more deliveries without having to worry about booking them around the flight trips.

Maybe Martin would allow Douglas to work with him. Carolyn grinned to herself - it was a funny thought.

The telephone began to ring shrilly. Martin jolted awake, rubbing his eyes groggily.

Carolyn almost felt guilty when she answered it and spent the next fifteen minutes talking a new client through the booking procedure; by the time she put the phone down her guiltiness had increased, but she was also feeling some relief - their accounts had just perked up slightly.

"Was it a booking?" Martin asked, trying to avoid a yawn.

"It was indeed," Carolyn smiled warily.

"To where?"

"Cairo," she answered, quickly looking down again at her papers.

"Cairo being one of the nosiest cities on the planet. Even at night," Martin said, slowly. He groaned softly, resting his head down on the table again.

Carolyn shrugged helplessly to herself. No one was likely to get any sleep in Cairo. They could all suffer together.

But, if Martin got the job with Swiss Air then Douglas would very much have to suffer on his own. Carolyn bit her; only time would tell.

_A/N Thank you for reading. I am open to prompts. Thanks!_


	7. Moustaches

_I don't own Cabin Pressure_

Moustaches

It was Arthur's idea that they are all take part, of course: grow a moustache throughout the month of November and collect money for charity.

"I'm not sure that I want to," said Martin, pulling back on the control column slightly so that Gertie would rise just above the cloud cover.

"Oh, why not, Skip?" Arthur asked, sounding as disappointed as if Martin just announced that he despised ice-creams and Saturday morning lie-ins.

"Yes, why not, Martin?" Douglas mimicked Arthur's tone of voice exactly. But, he wouldn't call Martin, Skip; never that.

Martin shrugged, refusing to yield any reasons why he didn't want to grow a moustache. He should have now better; his silence spoke volumes to Douglas. Clearly it was a personal issue.

"Oh, I see," Douglas drawled. "Simon's 'tach is doing well, is it?"

Martin face reddened and Douglas knew that he had hit the right button.

"You know how I feel about Simon's moustache," Martin protested, waving a hand. "There's no way that I even want to remotely look like him. And if he sees me he'll think that it's because I want to be more like him! No, no, I'm sorry, Arthur. But, I can't take the risk."

"Okay," Arthur sighed. "How about you, Douglas?"

Douglas linked his hands behind his head, the living image of smug relaxation.

"I'll take a crack at it."

"Brilliant!"

"It's just growing facial hair, after all. What's so difficult about that? And I reckon I'd look pretty good with a moustache."

Martin suddenly snorted. "Yeah, I can imagine. You'll look like a RAF pilot from World War 2." He cleared his throat, putting on an exaggerated voice. "How's your banter, Squadron Leader?"

"Not too bad, Squiffy!" Douglas shot back. "Just had a shoe scuffle with old Gerry! The hairy blighter tumbled on his half-pennies! Caught his can in the bertie!"

Martin looked blank for a moment before, "No, sorry, old man! I don't understand that banter at all!"

"Well, I can't very well repeat my banter, Squiffy!"

"Why not?"

"I can't remember what I said!"

"Oh!"

Arthur had stopped leaning on the back of Martin's chair and looked ready to run away.

"Are you, chaps, alright?" he asked, cautiously.

"Fine," Martin rasped, before descending into a coughing fit. "But, shouting banter like that is murder on my throat."

"It's your own fault, Martin," said Douglas. "You spent the whole of yesterday reading Harry Potter in the voice of Brain Blessed."

"Because you bet me to," Martin croaked. "And I won, so…"

His mouth moved, but nothing more than a wheezing came out.

"Oh, dear, have you just lost your voice, Captain?" Douglas asked, in mock sympathy.

"Not…quite…" Martin moaned in a raspy whisper. "I think.. it's going to be touch and…."

"Go?"

"Yeeess."

Arthur hopped from foot to foot in agitation.

"This is terrible," he moaned.

"Isn't it just?" Douglas said, gleefully. "I look forward to hearing your cabin address, Captain."

"No, I mean that I wanted Skip to read The Grinch Who Stole Christmas as Mr Bean," moaned Arthur.

"Mr Bean?" wheezed Martin. "Arthur, he doesn't talk…." He trailed off, frowning.

"Oh, has it gone again, Skip?"

"No, Arthur," Douglas laughed. "I think the irony has just hit him."

"What irony?"

"Never mind. Anyway, Martin, I think that you should join in with the moustaches thing. The more the merrier."

Martin rolled his eyes and nodded slowly.

"I'll take that as a yes."

Ooooooooooo

It was the 30th of November and Carolyn was thoroughly fed up with her hairy crew.

True, they had done a good job and raised a descent amount of money, but there was only so much grumbling she could bear to hear about how difficult it was maintaining and trimming a moustache, and only so many times she could bear to see them attempting to twirl their moustaches as they spoke.

Typically, it had turned into a competition. Douglas had a rather bushy moustache, Martin had only managed a few wispy ginger strands, but Arthur had surprised them with thick hair that he could curl up at either end.

But, it was nearing midnight and they were on they way back from a flight from Tokyo and when December finally came, Carolyn was only too glad to order them all to shave.

Martin was the first out of his seat to run into the toilet with his wash-bag in hand.

"It won't take him long," Douglas remarked, drolly.

A few minutes Martin returned to his seat, rubbing his top lip contently.

"Ahh, it feels so smooth," he sighed. "And I was getting fed up with trying to avoid Simon all month. I've got Gertie if you would care to de-hair yourself, Douglas."

"Will do."

Even after Douglas had left, Martin was still running his finger across his top lip. He shuddered: he had looked like an early version of Simon.

That could never be considered to be a good thing.

_A/N: This was based on Movember, a charity intuitive to raise money for prostate cancer by growing a moustache throughout November. They even have their own website you can look at. _

_Thanks for reading! Give me a review and I'll give you a shoe….or if you don't want a shoe I'll just say thank you! _


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